


East End of London

by darkforetold



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November 1888. Chief Inspector Will Graham is on Jack the Ripper's heels in London's impoverished East End. Who he finds at the end of a grisly murder, and a slanderous attempt to lure the Ripper out, is not who he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	East End of London

_Spitalfields, London — November 17, 1888_

The streets of London's East End had grown dark, desolate. Unseen eyes watched him from impoverished windows with moth-mottled curtains, shallow faces scrutinizing him from alleyways. Chief Inspector Will Graham pulled the collar of his overcoat higher up his throat. Pretending, that if they wanted to slice him open, see if he bled red, the heavy wool would protect him. When in truth, nothing could.

He slipped down Brushfield Street, keeping his eyes forward, never looking left or right because death surrounded him on either side. Up on Hanbury Street, his left, Annie Chapman had been found in a backyard, gutted, throat severed. His right, the Whitechapel Murderer's fifth victim, Mary Jane Kelly, mutilated and disemboweled on Dorset Street. And now ahead of him, past Fournier Street, in an alleyway just off Heneage, those that knew him as Jack the Ripper had struck again. Instead of looking ahead, staring death in the face, he kept his eyes down.

Broken cobblestones and horse manure led him to the bustle of Inspectors. Their eyes had become... lost, bewildered, glazed over with the shock and violence the last few months had brought them. None of them smiled anymore. Only aborted nods and muddled noises that were meant to be words. No one talked. Laughed. Half the time, no one dared to breathe.

He gave his own nod and brushed past, into the mouth of an alley, its dark throat long, its guts wounded and bloodied. The violence had escalated with each passing victim, and with the way the smell of blood hit him, clung to his throat, Will knew the latest wouldn't be any different. He just didn't expect to see what he saw when he rounded the corner.

She wasn't left disemboweled and rotting in a street, but suspended, ropes wrapped around her chest and shoulders like a harness, tied to railings and other building facets to give her lift, air, like she was flying. The blood spray on the brick wall behind her, thick and grotesque, symbolized wings in red glorious arcs. The fresh roses stuck in the bloody hollows of her eyes, in the horrified 'o' of her mouth, gave their newest murder theatrics that hadn't existed in the previous five. The Whitechapel Murderer's modus operandi had changed. Why now?

"Chief."

Will turned to Zeller. They gave each other haunted looks and dead smiles.

"Unidentified female victim. One slash to the left side of her neck, killed at night, and one week after the previous murder."

"But that's where the similarities end," Price added, "She wasn't mutilated like the others, and this—" The three of them looked at the body. "—I don't know what to make of this."

Never had they seen a murder so... decidedly artistic. Will took a step forward and studied her face, whole if not for her missing— "Where are her eyes?"

"Haven't found them yet. They're the only organs missing," Price answered.

"We lookin' at another killer here, Chief?"

Price sucked down a startled noise. "Why would you even ask that?"

The mere _notion_ of a second killer was unthinkable. Too much for them to wrap their heads around, too _big_ , like wondering if God existed, and why He let awful things like this happen.

"Because the murder's _different_."

—and it was. While Price and Zeller bickered behind him, Will mulled over 'a second killer' theory and considered the details. No horror for horror's sake, no mutilations, all organs accounted for other than the missing eyes. The almost... _respectful_ way he'd killed her. All of it entirely different than how the Whitechapel Murderer was known to kill. Not slaughtered like Mary Jane Kelly had been. Different, too, from Catherine Eddowes, whose left kidney and other organs had been removed. Most similar to Elizabeth Stride, then, who'd bled out from a singular cut to the left side of her neck—whose murder was debated belonging to the same killer at all.

Maybe he'd had more time. Will looked at the roses in her eye sockets, her mouth. Thorns wrapped around wrists, which were posed in prayer. Perhaps the Whitechapel Murderer was just being creative. Maybe he was in a _good mood_.

_Maybe he's just trying to impress you._

His heart skipped a beat, and Will licked his dry lips. A roil of something... dark, almost seductive pooled warm in his gut, and adrenaline thrilled his veins—Will swallowed hard, and when he finally looked away from her, to the alleyway, to the whole crime scene, he found Zeller and Price's curious eyes staring back at him. Waiting for him to confirm or deny their theory.

"No." He almost believed his lie. "Same killer."

Zeller and Price breathed a communal sigh of relief.

"Not that that's marvelous, having a killer on the loose," Zeller said, "Just... we don't need another—"

"One is bad enough," Price said, then nodded. "Chief, if we find anything new—"

Will nodded and turned away, from them, the alleyway, their bloody angel, and headed for the open street. Cleaner air filled his lungs, and he drank deeply of it, trying to clear his head. He couldn't make sense of either scenario; the more creative Whitechapel Murderer, or the chance there might be _two killers_ —

Their orbits crashed together before he could stop it. He jumped back, bewildered, and stared at the face of the woman he'd run into—or, more likely, the woman who had run into _him_.

"Chief Inspector Will Graham," she said in an accent much like his own. Her dark eyes flashed over him briefly. "You're never out of your flat unless the Ripper has killed some poor woman." Her always-perceptive gaze turned to the alley he'd just left—and the line of policemen, escorting a photographer, that went inside. "Has he?"

"The Whitechapel Murderer," he corrected, glancing over her shoulder. "The fact you know my daily routines—"

"Part of the job," she interjected. "How about an exclusive on the newest victim? Same modus operandi? Gutted and abandoned in an alley?"

"Beverly," he sighed out. She poised her pencil over her notebook, and he studied her, her pretty face, wondered how someone like her could be who she was; willing to do anything to get the story. Ruthless as much as she was intelligent. Dangerous.

Useful.

Will pushed past her as a dark thought blossomed in his head, and lost himself deeper in the streets of Whitechapel.

:::

He took a carriage that cut through Spitalfields, past corners where impoverished women waited for their company that night—each of them a target for the Whitechapel Murderer. He wondered what it'd be like to have to choose between dignity, survival, and death, and considered himself lucky that he didn't have to.

He had other demons to consider.

London's East End was a ghost town, with empty streets and long shadows. Its citizens were taking the curfews seriously, and on a night like tonight, all doors were locked, all curtains drawn. He didn't see a single person out on the streets by choice, until the carriage broke through the tramway and onto Charlotte Street, into an area that hadn't been marked by one of the murderer's gruesome discoveries. The carriage stopped, and Will walked down Myrole Street, past Miss Day's beautiful garden that'd become overgrown. Miss Day hadn't tended to her flowers since the first murder months ago. Too dangerous, she'd said. 

The whole of London seemed to ache and bruise. 

He took the stairs two at a time, up to his flat, and closed the door behind him, locked it, and finally took a breath. Overcoat cast aside, he moved straight to the kitchen. Kettle on the stove, cup, tea—it was everything he needed right now.

At his small table, he sipped his tea. Couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to Hanbury Street in Spitalfields. He tasted copper on his tongue like he was still there, breathing in death and filling his lungs. That morning's rain had diluted the stench somewhat, the undertone of horse's manure giving the scent of blood an earthiness that didn't belong. A dampness that had spread through him and left him chilled, just like the Whitechapel Murderer had left his latest victim. Strung up. Lifeless. Cold.

He closed his eyes, cupping the warm cup in his hands. Imagining his fingers tight around his throat. Squeezing, digging little fingernail crescents into his skin. He wondered if the Ripper would beg for his life, pleading like those women undoubtedly had. His pleas would fall on deaf ears, and he'd cut his throat, letting the blood ooze down his hand—hot, so incredibly, uncomfortably hot.

Somewhere, something shattered. Will jerked out of his fantasy, to burnt fingers and the teacup in pieces on the floor. Glass crunched under his feet as he stood up, dazed, and wiped his hand, holding it gingerly and cursing under his breath. He retreated into his bedroom, to the small washroom, and tended to his hand. The darkness there seemed to close in on him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on-end. _Something_ was out of the ordinary. It was too dark, too quiet, too... everything. Like someone or something was waiting for him.

He edged toward his bedroom, footfalls like ghosts across hardwood floors. Creeping into it like he didn't belong, like _he_ was the burglar in some unfortunate's home. Will took in his room, the small chair in the corner, the nightstand beside his bed, his—a small package sat on his pillow like a specter. Unimaginable, deadly. Wrong. Impeccably wrapped with a bow and a note card and completely reasonable— _if he had any friends at all_. 

Slowly, he crept closer, sat on the bed, and reached for it with burnt fingers. It felt solid in his hands, real, and he pulled at one end of the ribbon while his heart wailed against his chest. His breath caught. He opened the top. Inside—

Will whipped his head away and coughed. His throat let out a fractured noise, and he trembled, keeping his eyes down and away as he fumbled with the note card. A simple word, in handwritten scrawl he knew all too well.

 _See_.

They were blue eyes, a sky blue. Striking and beautiful if those eyes had been attached to its owner, the angel in the alleyway. Will stole a glance again, and the eyes stared back at him, bloody and horrific. The Whitechapel Murderer had gifted him her eyes, and Will gagged, holding it together enough to grab the note card and take it with him to his small desk. The Whitechapel Murderer knew where he lived, had known _of him_ for months, had written him letters, and him only, boasting of his murders, of what he'd planned to do. The other letters... he had them here somewhere, and searched with trembling fingers, pulling out drawers and fumbling through papers. But they weren't there.

—because he kept them in the floorboards. 

He got on his hands and knees, pulled the false board and pulled them free, scrambling over the words. Comparing the scrawl on the note card to that on the letters he'd received after, or sometimes before, every murder. In both cases, the writing was careless, looked as if it'd been written in haste, coming from a mind as twisted as the letters themselves. Same handwriting. Save a few discrepancies, every murder had the same modus operandi. 

Same killer.

Far too close to home.

Will sunk down to the floor, clutching his letters, suddenly so very aware and vulnerable. Every sound, every breath his flat took, came into painfully clear focus. The faucet drip-drip-dripped, and the old wooden floorboards sighed. The scent of something... foreign just on the tip of his nose— _heat_. A fevered sweetness he hadn't noticed before, caressing his skin and crawling beneath it, warm and comfortable. Seductive in its subtle darkness. It was threaded into the note card, and Will inhaled a lungful of it. The other letters hadn't smelled the same. They smelled of paper, of ink, not the darkness that threatened to pull him under. 

Mahogany, earthy and dark, with an undercurrent of a flower he couldn't name. Innocent and sinful, like eating chocolate naked in the dark. The smell of him snaked through his chest, and he _ached_ with how desperately he _needed_ to meet him. To put a face to a name. To look his torturer in the eyes. He wondered what color they'd be. Blue as London's sky in summer, maybe. Dark like coal. The grey of old bones. He hated eyes, they said too much, not enough, but the Whitechapel Murderer's... he could learn to appreciate those eyes, discover what secrets they held. How he could kill so easily, without remorse—and how he himself could do the same. He wanted to wield a knife like he did, cut through skin and muscle just as cleanly. Kill and turn away as simply as breathing. 

Will took another whiff of the note card—he needed him _now_. 

—so he could kill him.

:::

The Ravenstag pub pushed in around him with too many smells, noise, and talking. Boisterous laughter from one corner jumpstarted his blood while the pungent odor of humanity made him ill. And the talking—rumors of Jack the Ripper striking again and who'd be next, as if a life ended was the punctuation to some sick joke.

He tried to unclench his body and ease the aches in his muscles with a pint, but it didn't work. He was still too tense, alert, and overwhelmed. Large crowds had always put him on edge, and when a glass shattered, dropped by slippery fingers, he jumped and spilled his own. 

He should've asked her to meet him at the station for his sake alone. More practical, more professional.

Too stiff. She wouldn't have felt at home there.

A wintery rush of air nipped at his skin, and the pub's door closed with a hearty bang. He jerked his head up, fingers so tight around his glass they hurt. Beverly stopped in the doorway, dusting the light snow from her shoulders, standing out as someone who didn't belong. Sorely out of place with her brown walking dress, bustle obtrusive, lace collar and hat a little too delicate. Overworked men gave her unsure looks and thin-lipped glances, but she didn't care. She flaunted the bartender a wink and said, "Whisky."

"Yes, ma'am."

Then she saw him, her grin as long as it was pleased. The sway of her hips and skirts was triumphant at best, arrogant at worst, and her attitude and mannerisms were different than other women's. Like a carriage wreck on a bitter day in London: shocking, but no less fascinating and exciting. He decided then, with the way she took a seat without asking, and lit a cigarette so unladylike for the time, that he _liked_ different.

"Didn't take you for the type that came to a place like this." Dirty. Loud. "Didn't take you as an American either, seeing as you've never let me within ten feet of you before."

They'd never spoken a word to each other, not truly. Not beyond Beverly's shout for answers as she was escorted away from each and every crime scene. Not beyond him telling the officers to do just that.

"Didn't fit me," he said cryptically, avoiding her gaze.

"Alcoholism? America? Or talking to me?"

When he peeked up, just beyond the top of his glasses, she grinned cheekily, then thanked the bartender for her whisky, sipping it like a lady wouldn't. But then, Beverly Katz wasn't a typical lady.

"All of it. Particularly America and talking."

"Figured you were a loner. You don't live with anyone." She took a drag of her cigarette. "Why London?"

"Are you stalking me?"

"I call it... watching intently, " she returned easily. "Were you running from something?"

"My particular set of skills were needed elsewhere."

"Running _to_ something, then. The Ripper—"

"The Whitechapel Murderer," he corrected.

"Jack the Ripper."

"A name you coined—"

"—that has a better ring to it than the 'Whitechapel Murderer,' Chief Inspector Will Graham. It gets the good people of London excited... and scared."

"Which sells your papers."

"Exactly." Beverly took a sip of her whisky, the cherry of her cigarette burning bright and intelligent. "I'm a business woman, Will—may I call you Will?"

He opened his mouth—

"Will, I do what I can to make a living. It's better than making a living on the streets, don't you think? Besides..." Beverly smiled. "The name 'Jack the Ripper' will be remembered for centuries. No one will even know who the Whitechapel Murderer is, let alone that they're the same person. Which, brings me to my ultimate question: Why am I here, Chief Inspector Will Graham? I'm hardly beginning to think you might actually _like_ me or cared enough to invite me out for a drink. Although, that'd be a good start to whatever this is."

"I need... your help. The kind of help only your particular set of skills can grant me."

Beverly grinned like a shark might, then whipped out a little notebook and pencil. Poised and ready, just like she always seemed to be. "Is this about the Ripper?" When he said nothing... "I help you, and you give me everything I need to know about those murders. Everything. I can't help you if you can't help me."

He worried his bottom lip, studying her. Her dark expressive eyes, her round face, eager as it was pretty. She'd print anything he said, if the previous editions of _The Star_ were anything to go on, and that was exactly what he was counting on.

"The latest murder... it was different, wasn't it?" she asked, testing the waters.

"How did you—"

"Watching intently."

He nodded, then said, "Yes. He leaves his victims... disemboweled in streets and alleyways. But..."

"But not this one," she coaxed him.

"No, she was... displayed like a—an artist's masterpiece."

"Displayed? Displayed how?"

"Suspended like she was in flight. Twin arcs of blood for wings. There were... roses in her eye sockets and mouth, and her wrists were bound together with thorns, posed as if she were in prayer."

"Damn." Beverly leaned back in her chair and took a refortifying drag of her cigarette, snuffing it out. Then she leaned forward to whisper in conspiratorial tones, "Five other murders, throats cut, two in particular mutilated, and now, what, the Ripper has had a change of heart? He's... displaying them? Feeling creative? Unless he regretted killing her—"

"He doesn't regret killing, Beverly," he corrected sternly.

"Then, she was special somehow."

"She's identical to the other victims. There's nothing _unique_ about her, nothing that would make him... kill differently."

"You've seen this before, haven't you? Let me rephrase that—have you met another person like him? Someone who kills multiple times? This is out of my expertise."

It was his turn to take a gulp of his otherwise untouched pint. Then, he took a breath of spoiled air, letting it rattle against old bones before releasing it. "Even if I'd met another like him, a repeated murderer, the Whitechapel Murderer," he breathed out, "isn't like anything we've seen before. He's in his own category, transcending modern psychopathology norms and personality dimensions. He doesn't have a motive for killing these women, not that we know of, and—while his _signature_ doesn't always remain exactly the same, there's elements of it there. The cut throats, the mutilations in some cases, how he discards them—"

"Signature?"

"Think of it as handwriting. One cannot change their handwriting, the essence of who they are, without practice. Just as a murderer who claims multiple victims can't just—it's unlikely that they change their modus operandi."

"So, what are you saying, Will?" She leaned in. "That Whitechapel has two—"

" _No_ ," he stated evenly.

"Then, he was inspired." She leaned back, her face smug. "Rumor has it that the Ripper sends you letters."

"That's untrue."

"I have it on good authority—"

"Then your _authority_ is wrong."

"Maybe," she conceded, tapping her whisky glass. "Jack likes to take organ trophies. Catherine Eddowes' kidney. Most of Mary Jane Kelly's, including her heart... Your angel have anything missing?"

"Her eyes."

"And did you find them?"

A simple _no_ would've sufficed. Instead, he hissed out, " _Jack_ takes organ trophies. Why would I have found them?"

"Because he's operating differently this time," Beverly deadpanned. 

Will stared at her hard, then grabbed his pint. He hadn't noticed his trembling hands until the bitter liquid slipped down his front instead of making it to his mouth. The wetness shocked him, Beverly's insistent stare, watching him, unnerved him, and the noises, the smells— "This was a mistake. I have to go."

Deceptively strong fingers closed around his arm before he had a chance to stand up. Stilling him and giving him no choice but to remain seated. Beverly squeezed it gently and whispered, "I think you know where that woman's eyes are, Will Graham, and you're not fooling anyone. Least of all me." She let him go, leaning back in her seat, fixing him with that penetrable gaze of hers. "You're not telling me everything. I know it. I'm like a bloodhound with lies, so don't bother."

Will looked down at the table, the whorls in the wood, and circled them with a fingertip, scratching at them. Busying himself with _anything_ to avoid her searching, intelligent eyes. She knew far more than he thought she did. The thought crossed him that he shouldn't be telling someone like her—a journalist for a sensationalist newspaper—details about the crimes. But, in some perverse way, he trusted her, and he was rarely wrong about people. Especially when it concerned trust.

"They were... wrapped in a box and left on my pillow. Like a gift." And despite the seriousness of it all, he laughed. A choked-off sound, just on the edge of derangement. "Like we were friends."

"The other organs... did he—"

"No, no, no." He rubbed his hands down his face. "This is the first time he's sent me a gift, Beverly. Letters always. But never a gift. Not like this. Not like..." He swallowed hard, then downed the entire pint, with Beverly watching him quietly. Putting together the pieces of their puzzle.

"Was there a letter?"

"No. A note card with a single word: See."

"'See'? See what?"

"I don't know," he answered, exasperated.

"And the letters before?"

"Long and boasting. And yes, same handwriting. I checked." He leaned forward. "We're not looking at two murderers, Beverly."

"So." Beverly took another sip of her whisky, setting the glass down. "He's obviously aware of you, but hasn't killed you. Sends you letters, and now gifts..."

"He's... haunting me. Teasing me. Boasting that I can't catch him—or haven't yet."

"Or maybe he's obsessed with you."

Will locked eyes with her, a lungful of air trapped in his chest.

She leaned forward and said, "He's trying to impress you." Her eyes were graven. "Will, you're his muse."

The breath he'd held turned to ice, then seared his insides raw. _His muse_... the idea sickened him, but the rest of him, his body, his heart, trembled with an excitement he'd never known before. A thrill that shook him to his bones. He tightened his fingers around the empty pint glass just to steady himself. Beverly's hand on his arm did little to ground him. But he held onto her like she was a lifeline anyway, grabbing her hands, holding them, as his voice cracked over words that were almost pleading. "I need you... to write an article for me. About him. Not—his murders, but _him_. As slanderous as you can—and mention that _I_ said them."

"Are you—do you have a death wish? Will, he'll come after you—"

"I have to catch him. I hav—"

"There has to be another way," she demanded.

"There isn't," he assured. "Listen to me, Beverly. He's arrogant. His pride is more valuable than gold. If we wound it, if _I_ wound it, he'll answer. It may be the only chance we get."

"He'll kill you. If you're lucky, he'll be feeling creative."

"I have to take a risk— _we_ have to take a risk," he said.

"And if he comes after _me_?"

"He won't shoot the messenger, but get out of London just in case." 

She nodded numbly, then said, "Slanderous: impotency, crude generalizations of his mentality, perversion. Your words. I understand."

"Tell me when it's in print."

"Oh, you'll know," she said, draining the last of her whisky. "You won't last a day."

"Good." He got up to leave, but she caught his wrist again before he could move.

"This is a reckless, stupid idea."

"I know."

He smiled at her, turned, and left her in an abundance of noise and smells.

::: 

Beverly had been right.

When _The Star_ came out, its lies in plain view, in black and white, he knew. London proper rushed with the slander, giddy with morbid excitement while Whitechapel and Spitalfields cowered, frightened by the doom that'd consume them all. He spent his morning second-guessing every faceless person on every street, his afternoon in his favorite tearoom, with his back to the wall. Those that knew him stayed far, far away. If they saw him on the street, they crossed quickly. Ladies held their breath as he walked by, as if he himself were the Grim Reaper. As if they, too, knew he'd be dead by night's end. 

—and night, thirsty for blood, came quickly.

As the sky grew dark, he studied every shadow, any anomaly, as he headed toward his flat, shoulders rounded, overcoat up to his ears. Everyone that passed him on the streets received a second look, every strained smile, avoidance of eye contact, given even more scrutiny. No one stood out as particularly dangerous, but there were too many people out, even as curfew closed in. _He_ wouldn't strike so openly in public, so Will edged toward more empty streets, where the shadows were thicker, longer. More clever. The crowd thinned out until he was alone, until his footfalls were the only ones that echoed across stone. Until the darkness came only for him.

Then, more footsteps.

Calm. Calculated. An even, sure rhythm that belonged to a predator. Left foot, right foot, again and again. Almost too quiet to hear, but certainly _there_. But the mind had a habit of playing tricks, and Will cast a glance over his shoulder. Nothing behind him but London's more lighted streets, people. Safety. The need to rush toward them twisted his insides, but he wasn't here for safety. Only danger. 

—and danger pressed against his skin like a lover might.

An arm snaked around his waist and held him close, fast, and he almost didn't have the will to struggle. But when he did, when he thrashed, called out for help, that arm turned into a vice under his ribs, crushing them, as a hand slipped over his gaping mouth. Soft skin nor the leather of gloves caressed his face, but cloth—and a sickingly sweet smell that he couldn't help but drag into his lungs. So... ice-cold, so heavy and _wrong_ in his chest, that he almost wretched. His discomfort swayed, floating away from him. His head grew light, vision faltering, hearing slowly ebbing away. Extremities numb. His world was slipping away, growing darker... He tried to struggle in his weakness, but that arm grew tighter, then—a soft cheek brushed against his, a nuzzle so tender, so gentle, he wondered if there was regret in this. It was enough to make him... ease into unconsciousness, clinging to gentleness as he slipped into hell. He'd all but surrendered when lips brushed the shell of his ear, when a voice whispered, "Hello, Will," against his neck.

He took another deep breath of that sweetness and fell into sin.

:::

He woke not to darkness, but to light. Soft and dreamlike, floating in front of him; his world a prism of things that didn't make sense. The unmistakable smell of food brought him more clarity, the bitter note of wine in the air cloying at his throat. When his vision cleared, when his head pieced together the reality of his world, Will found himself at a dinner table, set beautifully, almost extravagantly with expensive dinnerware and silver. A centerpiece of exotic flowers and leaves took up the table's center, an empty platter nestled within—as if it were patiently waiting for its main course. He'd been invited to dinner, with no chance to refuse.

Something stirred in the hallway, a sound, a presence, he didn't know, and Will snatched up a small silver knife, clutching it desperately in his lap. He listened. The soft shuffle of feet behind him, that fevered sweetness again—

"You're awake. Good."

—and a voice that rolled down his spine, dark like glass, sweet like sin. There was an unseen smile in the room, but Will didn't dare move his head to see it. He closed his eyes instead and breathed him in.

"I'm delighted to finally meet you face-to-face, Chief Inspector Will Graham," he said in a voice that wasn't London-born. "I've heard so very much about you."

His first instinct, as natural as breathing, was to apologize. For what he'd said in the paper, for his efforts in luring him out. To save himself, to placate the man he'd been studying, hunting, _admiring_ for months. But instead, he took a deep breath and eased it out, saying, "And I you. I've," he swallowed, "studied your work."

Will inhaled sharply as lips settled an inch away from his ear. "Wine?"

He nodded dumbly, and the wine—red like blood—convalesced in his delicate glass. Will grabbed it the second his newest friend stopped pouring, gulping it in an effort to numb his senses. He should stay alert, he thought, but the presence behind him, as deadly as a guillotine's blade, was as alluring as it was oppressive. He drank more just so he wouldn't sell his soul so easily—and the devil, he poured more. Then, just as boldly, sat in the chair cattycorner to his head of the table. Like they were old friends having dinner.

Will kept his eyes down at his plate. He'd imagined what the Whitechapel Murderer might look like time and time again. How he'd speak, carry himself. If he were a surgeon or a pauper from the streets. Nothing prepared him for reality. His face was angular, cheekbones high and prominent, lips thin and wrapped around a smile. His eyes were the color of whisky when sunlight hit it just right, and everything about him spoke of an otherworldly grace. In Sunday school, when he was young, he sat in wonder when they spoke of Lucifer, the Fallen Angel. About his beauty and wickedness, how easily he could lead the unwitting into temptation. He didn't know he'd be setting at his table years later, staring at him. Drinking wine with him. When his dear friend smiled at his attention, Will nearly sold his soul right then and there. When he was made, God must have loved him best.

"I admired what you had said in the paper," he said casually, then sipped his wine.

"I—" Will swallowed hard. "I just wanted to meet you— _know_ you."

It earned him a glance, and Will froze under those honeyed eyes. That smile never left his friend's face, slight, knowing, like he had a devilish secret he wouldn't share. Will watched him stand up and reach for carving utensils on the centerpiece's plate, now full of meat—something he hadn't noticed until now. Too enraptured to notice anything but the man in front of him. Too gone to let his senses take in the rich smells, of cinnamon and nutmeg, of something spicy teasing him amid the sweetness. 

"Hungry?"

Will looked at him, then the food, swallowing in earnest. "What are we having?"

"Your friend."

Will frowned in confusion. "My—"

That smile again. "More specifically, your friend's leg."

His head swam, confused, but his mouth kept moving. "You're not..."

"No, but he sent his regards."

Almost cheerfully, his _intruder_ carved pieces of thigh— _human meat_ —and prepared two plates, a helping of potatoes on the side as if this were simply a normal dinner. The plate was set in front of him, and he stared at it, separating facts from fiction. From what he thought had been true, from what he knew to be true now. 

"You killed him," Will whispered. "That woman... why?"

The villain beside him fixed him with a glance. "I was curious."

Curious. Simply curious. Like a child with a toy—or the boy who played cat and mouse with murderers.

"Who was he?" Will blurted.

"A man never divulges his friend's secrets."

"Friend?" Will spat out. "You're weren't his friend. The light from friendship wouldn't have reached you for a million years. That's how far away from friendship you and he were."

He sounded... jealous, petulant.

"He spoke of you often," he said, accent heavy and dark, ignoring his outburst. "He watched you watch him—admired you. Thought you were a clever boy." The devil sipped his wine, set down the glass, and looked at him. "I don't find you that interesting."

"You will," Will promised.

His host smiled, amused like a parent watching his son take his first steps. Will swallowed hard and broke eye contact, looking at the silverware, the bloodied wine in his glass—anything. The knife in his hand grounded him, its metal a deadly reminder that he had some control. Enough to make him look up again and meet amber eyes dead-on as if doing so _wouldn't_ get him killed.

The devil smiled more, then said, "Eat."

"No."

"It would be rude not to honor him, Will."

"Is that what you do with all your victims? Eat them as some way of... honoring them?"

"You assume I have killed before."

"A man of your distinction isn't likely to stop at one murder."

"Do you speak from a professional point of view, Chief Inspector Will Graham? Or are you speaking from your heart?" When Will frowned, confused... "Did you dream of killing him, Will?"

Will gripped the knife harder, staring him down. His astute observation of him was chilling. The other man smiled as if his hesitation was all the answer he'd needed, to which he said, "How do you envision killing him?"

"Like he killed his victims," Will breathed out in confession. "Cutting his throat... ripping out his heart with my bare hands..." He took in a shallow breath to steady himself, as to not reveal too much. But ever-keen whiskey eyes drilled into his soul and unearthed his secrets—and the devil was pleased.

"You were going to kill him," his host said, "But I found him first. For that, I apologize, Will. Had I known—"

"I'm glad you did," he blurted out. "Saved me the trouble." _And my humanity_.

"Will you kill me?"

The direct question, almost innocent in its honesty, threw the devil in a whole new light. Not only painfully beautiful, seductive in his elegance, but incredibly... insightful and intelligent too. More dignified than the Whitechapel Murderer. More... addictive. There was no boating in his words, no haunting threat. Just... curiosity.

And Will couldn't help but answer truthfully. "Yes."

An understanding passed between them. The devil met his eyes and smiled wider, possibly thrilled by the promise of the chase, and Will spared one of his own. It said _I will catch you_ , and his host seemed to brighten at it. Then, he looked down at his untouched plate, and the decidedly chipper air turned stale with disappointment—and it was disappointment that could kill. 

Will looked down at his plate, too. The meat looked succulent, its thick sauce fragrant. He picked up his fork and hesitated, then speared it through. The meat fell off the bone, and Will stuck it in his mouth, chewing. It tasted... like any meat might, well-cooked, seasoned, prepared, and the idea alone—that Will was eating human meat and liked it—sickened him. But he didn't show it. He chewed and swallowed, then said, "It's delicious."

This pleased his new friend, and they shared a quiet meal together, honoring a man by dining on his flesh. Disturbing yet somehow... comforting. By eating him, he no longer existed. The Whitechapel Murderer was dead—and he was free. Will looked at his savior, and thought of the thousand ways he'd kill him.

Dinner ended just as quietly. The devil put down his silverware, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked at him. That bemused smile never seemed to leave his face. "As much as I have enjoyed your unique company, I believe our time together is at an end."

His devil was as lethally quick as he was beautiful. At his throat with a carving knife faster than he could catch, quicker than his euphoric brain could comprehend. The knife bit into the left side of his neck, and he imagined a bead of blood slipping down his skin where he could feel the unmistakable sensation of wetness. But that was all. Death didn't come quick and sure, but hesitated, hovering over him, breath whispering down his throat. The devil brushed a thumb across his jaw line, and Will steeled it, swallowing against the blade. Angling his eyes upward to catch those of his would-be killer's. Unafraid. Defiant.

"My compassion for you is inconvenient," he said, a whisper broken over something else. A desire both of them wouldn't name.

"See. You _do_ find me interesting."

Will smiled then struck, sending his blade up, sinking it deep into his host's face. A grunt of pain was all he earned. A lesser man would've faltered, lost control, but his devil didn't. He cut instead, quick, deep and wide.

Blood spilled down his skin. His world shattered into pieces again, crisp details replaced by blocky shapes and colors. Distortion that confused him, his senses sent into an overwhelming spiral of panic. He barely recognized the call of his name, or why he was suddenly staring at the ceiling. His devil wasn't hovering over him but someone else. Someone he knew.

"Get the fuckin' gov some help!"

Zeller.

"Chief," was all he heard before he faded to black. 

::: 

"Will... Will..."

He followed his name into consciousness. His world wasn't a confusing puzzle of shapes and colors, but of logical sense, of a face, pretty and familiar. Almond eyes, intelligent—Beverly. Behind her was white—white curtains, white light, sheets like snow. Either he'd died or...

"Don't try to sit up. You've been to hell and back."

"What?"

He lifted a hand to his throat, to where pain throbbed and nagged. Bandages—Beverly's gentle fingers tugged his hand down to his side. "The Ripper had you, Will."

Let her believe it'd been the Ripper. 

"How did I... get out of there alive?"

"Watching intently." Beverly smiled like a cat who'd found her mouse. "I followed you, plain and simple. Look, Will. Your plan was suicidal. You really think I'd let you put your head in the lion's mouth without at least watching?"

"So, you..."

"Alerted the police, yes, and they rescued you. Don't sound so disappointed." Beverly squeezed his arm. "You could have died..." She licked her lips, and a wash of uncertainty flashed over her face. "I don't know if I should tell you this, but—the doctor said he knew how to cut you so you wouldn't bleed out. But that doesn't make sense, does it? Unless..."

"He didn't want me to die," he said in wonder. 

_My compassion for you is inconvenient_.

That voice was just as intoxicating in his head.

"Doesn't that frighten you?"

He studied her face because it was the only thing that made sense. "No." Underneath her bravado— "There's something you're not telling me."

Beverly bit her bottom lip. "There's been another murder, Will. This one entirely different—"

"Who gave you access to the scene?"

"Does it matter?" she balked, then, "Zeller." Her new friend by the look on her face. "Male. Head, arms, and legs gone. Missing heart too."

"So, just... a torso?"

"Yes, and this— _he_... he left this for you." She swallowed. "It was on your chest when I came in."

A gift box, perfectly wrapped with a note card attached. His numb fingers worked the box open—and the smell...

"Oh my God," Beverly whispered.

He looked inside. There, nestled in paper, was a human heart. 

The Whitechapel Murderer's broken, mangled heart.

His fingers trembled over the note card, the letters sweeping, elegant, much like the man who wrote them.

_Dearest Will,_

_Do you still wish to know me? See me?_

Will laid his head back and inhaled the note card's fevered sweetness.

 _Yes_.


End file.
